Gasping for Tears


If she had cried…would it take away the ghastliness of great surprise?

Even as a witness…to her rain…

A gentle, caressing touch that penetrates the skin.

Humidity and its warming coat…left gingerly behind…

Among this…could I begin, again?

As a crow flies, tears fall from the skies.

Yet, never from a solemn women’s eyes.

Water pounds like a fist coursing itself from the heavens.

The road ahead, still parched and unforgiving.

As the crow flies, tears fall from the skies.

Yet, never from a solemn women’s eyes.

Awash Away Bad Dreams

It would appear the earth has given up to washing away the bad dreams.

Thick in its own mire.

Resolve will now see to all that it seems.

Thickened piles of devastation

mixed with falling apart at the seams.

Tree trunks abstract and twisted.

No longer lanky, artifacts for a visitor’s dreams.



Rain Pelts…

skin 1

The rain, so real, against my skin.

Damp reminders of…

Where I have and have not been.

Timber, askew from a soggy past.

Stray and lost, falling like broken glass.

I sit…

Transfixed by what is so common.

A life that can easily be forgotten.

The rain pelts against fairer days.

Wild the bird standing in weather’s woody ways.

I sit…

Transfixed by what is so common.

A life that can easily be 2


If I Were a Fisherman

If I were a fisherman.

Forty days, forty nights, would no longer be pretend.

I could cast my line into a moldy moat.

If I were a fisherman.

I would no longer need a boat.

If I were the rain.

My flesh turning toward water.

My blood thinned by the clouds above.

My tears rearing…the green grass below.

To a life filled with drought.

I would be liquid gold.

If I were the rain.

I would be the only reason for many a season.

If I were a picture.

Worth at least, a hundred words.

I would photograph, all that is foreign and absurd.

I would camouflage all the earth’s treason.

Exposing the hue and contrast of desperation’s sun.

If I were to walk on water.

I would not need worry about the weather.

Encompassing all that is gathering and harsh.

After the ark, I would satiate all that is parched.


To the Owner of the House


To the owner of the House,

It has brought about, after the turns of a century, magical visits…to seemingly, traditional lands.  From, Pin the Tail, to watered down hand stands.  Eight tracks of Irish Rovers.  And, mostly, timid, first kisses of young lovers.

As of late,

I have thought of writing you…a receipt and leaving it in the rain.  Chain letters to a Pen Pal who is no friend.  Dismal, distant and watered down.

A ‘ME’ generation, side note, omitting the campfires.  Doused in picturesque New England simplicity.  Something penned before the anonymity.

Shameful, how life is plastic now.  Communication, dim and surreal.  I now realize, old fashioned…are the ways to inked expression.  To pillage…random words, apparently, a wrong turn to yesterday’s dog-eared page.  All those lonely letters, written in an out of the drizzling mist.  Posted on days I wished for rain.  Posted on days I begged for the rain.




This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Post Script

If we had told each other’s secrets.  Would we than…remembered ‘how to love?’